Allavin heard nothing, but what he saw made his heart soar.
The line of Kiran Thall crumbled. It was as if one of the Shae gods had thrown a waterlogged blanket across the valley floor in a heavy heap. Riders tumbled from their mounts. Others sagged in the saddles as if they had no strength to lift the reins. Horses nickered and shied, tossing their riders to the ground. It seemed to Allavin that something had struck them, a noise or sound or some commotion that sapped their will to fight.
The knights of Owen Draw, on the other hand, had no such impediment.
Allavin grinned as Shearmur spurred his roan and whoops and cheers raised high enough into the sky to reach his ears. The knights loosed like a flood of silver. Stamping geldings and screams of terror joined in counter-swells to the chorus of hooves and jangling harness. From his vantage on the alerion, Allavin could see it all. It was more than a rout. It was more than victory. It was the beginning of the end.
“What is it?” Allavin shouted to Korane. “What happened down there?”
“Silvan magic! The most glorious Silvan magic I’ve ever heard. It’s gone, my friend. The taint is gone!”
“Ballinaire! Where’s Ballinaire?”
The rider withdrew a whistle and blew it, signaling the other alerion riders. The great creatures circled around the base of the hill.
“There!”
Allavin saw it before the rider’s finger could point it. A knot of soldiers wearing the black and gold surrounded a white destrier and charged the line of Owen Draw. One of the other alerion let out an ear-splitting scree as Shearmur and his hosts surrounded the Bandit Leader. Allavin’s heart thumped in his chest and tears stung his eyes.
“Closer! Fly closer!” he begged.
The leading knights smashed into the front ranks of Ballinaire’s host. He heard the crunch and shudder, the scream of horses and steel. The white plume on Ballinaire’s helm wagged and jostled. He bent over in his saddle, clutching the reins, unable to even raise his weapon. Another horse barreled into his and Allavin watched him totter on the saddle, and then tip over the side.
The cheer that went up from the valley floor was deafening.
*
As Exeres struck the glaring Firekin orb with the Bloodstone, the jolt of Silvan magic crushed him from behind and shoved him face-first onto the tunnel floor. A hurricane of music swelled, sweet and piteous, permeating his skin pores and mingling with his blood. It was a pure fountain that washed away every mote of grime and filth. All of his guilt and shame dissolved. Every crevice that Miestri had stolen into was purged. Free. He was free! Truly free!
The cleansing of the magic brought tears to his eyes. All connection with Miestri and Mage had been severed.
I am clean.
He looked up and saw his filthy fist clutching the Bloodstone. Its magic pulsed calmly. It was cool now. He tasted the salt and dirt on his lips, yet despite his physical filthiness, he felt as if he’d bathed beneath a waterfall for days.
Justin moaned and choked.
Exeres saw him, his hands blistered and raw, and pity swelled in his heart.
Mage lay crumpled on the floor as well, unconscious.
The song of the magic came again and Exeres braced himself as it rushed through the tunnels a second time, draining back the way it had come. Even the hint of its power made his knees weak.
–Hurry to Thealos–
The voice resounded in his mind like a thunderclap. Leaving the broken shards of the Firekin orb, he made it to his feet and ran down the corridor, following the shrinking Silvan magic as it fled. Another pair of footfalls joined his and he glanced back to discover Justin keeping pace with him, his eyes red and swollen. He knew he needed to hurry. With aching knees, sun-burnt palms, and a searing thirst, he ran down the tunnel hall, praying that he would get there in time.
Before the Silverkin’s magic crushed Thealos to death.
*
The human soldiers fled.
Xenon lurched against the wall of the tunnel, his body pained and bloody. Three dozen of the Kiran Thall lay strewn across the tunnel floor, heaped on each other, but they had claimed the two quaeres in return. Heartsick, he watched the soldiers stagger and flee as the Silvan magic swamped them with its power. Tones of sublimity rushed from the depths of the tunnels. The soldiers collapsed as if some huge scythe had cut a swath through them. Xenon whirled as the stone barrier vanished, dissolved into nothingness by the power of the Silverkin.
He stared at the empty dark tunnel beyond and his chest constricted with pain. Quickfellow had found the magic, but he had been too slow. Too banned slow! Flitting memories surged from his mind—the lives of the quaeres engulfing him fled, leaving him alone in the stillness and shadows. Silvan magic had prevailed over Forbidden. As it always would.